She had so spent many evenings that summer, although she often wondered what good it did any one, and sometimes went home deciding that she could not go again.
Ruby grew paler as the summer waned; the White Sands school was given up--"her father thought it better that she shouldn't teach till New Year's"-- and the fancy work she loved oftener and oftener fell from hands grown too weary for it.

But she was always gay, always hopeful, always chattering and whispering of her beaux, and their rivalries and despairs.

It was this that made Anne's visits hard for her.

What had once been silly or amusing was gruesome, now; it was death peering through a wilful mask of life.

Yet Ruby seemed to cling to her, and never let her go until she had promised to come again soon.